


Haust

by beautifullyheeled



Series: Watson-Holmes Prerogative [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Mentions of Prior Drug Use, Other, Pining Sherlock, Prequel, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Subverted expression of Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 18:47:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1828435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifullyheeled/pseuds/beautifullyheeled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Unrequited Love.</p><p>(Prequel for The Beekeeper)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Haust

**Author's Note:**

> Please listen to this, if able, while reading:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m9lpjsx3OC4&list=PLoyfU46PkkYBGlfO79SO6P0UyeV6EJCh5&index=22  
> Haust by Olafar Arnalds

Sherlock stood at the window, the lace curtains slightly parted to show the street below. The street light cast its oddish sulfuric glow onto the pavement causing the street, damp from the night’s rain, to glimmer.

Glimmer: _verb \ˈgli-mər\_ ;to shine in a weak, faint, or unsteady way.

There was a glimmer of hope in his gaze.

Hope: _verb \ˈhōp\_ ;  to cherish a desire with anticipation. archaic: trust.

He had hoped to see him again.

Trust: Reliable: Good: Honest:

The words came flooding to him. Every one a thread that bound his heart until he thought it would eviscerate itself.

It would it have been easier?

To have stayed dead...

Wouldn’t it have done?

To let John remain blissfully unaware of his very much corporeal being?

No. Sherlock knew the answer.

No.

No.

The word resounded as a clarion call as he slumped against the cooled glass.

This, in it’s infinite sadness, was still the better path.

Wasn’t it?

To be there for John-

Not his position anymore.

But they would-

John was having a child.

They wouldn’t.

He exhaled, the glass fogging as his own thoughts turned to a simple solution and an old clouded mix of his own that he would have turned to once upon a time.

But, this was no faerie tale. Grimm or otherwise.

He was no damsel in distress.

Besides, John would be disappointed.

_“Ever the addict...”_

The words echoed through his mind.

Something he was no longer; well, not with the drugs at any rate. No, he’d chosen deduction and science. And music to balm his wounded soul.

Then tea.

Sherlock shook his head grimacing away the blurriness within his vision to pick up his violin. The soft cloth was beneath his fingers before he knew it. Cloth down, shoulder rest on... he’d be in for a long session, bow swiftly rosined.

And then a breath.

Long, cool, deep.

His fingers reverently stroked as his soul bared itself to no one.

_“Well, you’ll not need me around..."_

 

John had a higher purpose now.  He didn’t need to run alleys and long abandoned hidden London for his thrill. No, soon a quickened and steady heartbeat would supply the same rush for his... friend.

 

It was as it should be.

John was happy.

 

So why wasn't he?

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Letalkingmime and Everythingelsegoesherethen for holding my hand through this.


End file.
